Writer's Block And How To Cure It
by Gary Merchant
Summary: An unexpected visitor arrives on my doorstep.


WRITER'S BLOCK AND HOW TO CURE IT

I'm sometimes asked where I get my inspiration for my stories, a question I'm sure has been raised before with many of you. For me, it's an idea. Either based on the tv series or outside of it. Occasionally though, some stories come from real life experiences.

Take last night, for example. I had been doing a lot of writing recently – short stories, longer pieces, with a diverse number of ideas. But this time, I was struggling. Writer's Block had set in, and I couldn't think of a thing.

So when the front door bell rang I ignored it at first. The last thing I wanted were visitors. But when the bell rang repeatedly I gave up, threw my pen on the desk, and marched up to the front door, flinging it open, ready to send whoever it was packing.

The protest died in my throat.

He stood there, in his Edwardian cricketing whites, an impatient look on his face. "You took your time," he said. "Writing yet another masterpiece?" The hint of sarcasm wasn't lost on me as he strolled past me into the hall.

"Come in, why don't you?" I muttered.

"What was that?" I'd forgotten how acute his hearing was.

"Nothing." I closed the door, and led him into the sitting room. "Look, I'm pleased to see you – well, surprised, really, but…"

He pointed an accusing finger at me. "I take the time to write you one letter – just the one – and you don't even have the common decency to reply."

I had to think back for a moment. Letter? What letter? "Oh," I said, remembering. "That letter."

"You hadn't written one story about me." He stood there, his arms folded. In that way that a teacher knew he was in the right, and dared anyone to say otherwise. "The other writers had done their bit, but not you. So I wrote you that letter." He stared at me accusingly. "Was it too much to expect a reply of some sort? Or was I just raising my standards too high?"

"Now, look!" I'd had enough of this. "It's not my fault you came over as being bland."

"Bland?" Surprised at my outburst, he stared at me. "Bland?"

"Yes, bland. And a bit wet, in case you were wondering." I was getting my own back, now. "It's no wonder you're difficult to write for. And the actor who played you didn't exactly help matters."

He seemed to have lost the power of speech. So I went on. "And in case you hadn't noticed, things have been a bit hectic these last few months, ever since the new bloke turned up."

Now he looked at me, puzzled. "What new bloke?"

"You know, him in the leather jacket," I replied. "The one who only had the one season? The Northern one."

"Oh. Him." He fell silent.

I quickly made an effort to calm down, as shouting was getting us nowhere. "The truth is, I was running through some story ideas for you after I got your letter," I explained. "But before I could put anything down, _he _showed up."

"And you just had to go with the flow." His tone was less abrasive this time.

I nodded. "Something like that. Besides, you're not the only one we have to write for. I mean, crumbs, there are another eight of you."

"Nine," he corrected.

"What? Oh, yes you're right. Nine." I'd almost forgotten the other new one. "Anyway, you've really got nothing to complain about. Haven't you seen the stories I wrote about you since that letter."

"Ah, yes." He hesitated before admitting the fact. "They're, um… they're very good, by the way."

"Thanks." That was praise indeed. "I did wonder, though – didn't that one with the Myrka actually happen?"

He sniffed. "It might have done."

"I thought so." We both smiled, no longer on our guard. "By the way, did things get sorted out over that paternity suit?"

He stiffened and looked around, though there were only the two of us in the house. "Er, that's still a rather touchy subject, actually."

"Oh, right," I said, lowering my voice to a whisper. "So Brisbane is still off limits, then?" He nodded. "We'll say no more about it, then."

"That probably would be for the best," he agreed. He held out a hand. "Look, sorry about before. We did rather get off on the wrong foot."

"And I'm sorry for the 'bland' thing," I apologised, completing the handshake. "I was well out of order."

"Yes. Well, keep up the good work," he said, as he turned to leave.

"You too," I said, following him. "What's next for you?"

He looked at me and grinned. "Doesn't that depend on what you writers have in store for me?"

"Fair point." I smiled, taking the hint, and saw him out to the front door. And then he was gone. It had all happened in a matter of minutes. Not even time for a cup of tea. Ah well.

I returned to the desk, and my latest effort. I looked at what I'd written so far, and screwed up the paper. Despite numerous attempts, this story just wasn't coming together. I sat back in the chair and thought. Maybe I should write from personal experience. I thought back over the last few minutes, and began to write with renewed vigour.

Which is how this story came about – not that anyone would believe it…


End file.
